


Leave This Fucked Up Place Behind

by uh_oh_my_lasagna



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bedelia’s leg, Jack Crawford Being Jack Crawford, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Will loses it caught on camera, minor sex scene, when ur boss fucks up ur dinner date :((
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29363592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uh_oh_my_lasagna/pseuds/uh_oh_my_lasagna
Summary: It all started with a shot. A single, clear shot, that rang loudly in Will’s ears.Will gasped loudly, crying out in pain like he had for Abigail. It was only fitting, after all. His family was dying.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	Leave This Fucked Up Place Behind

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my friend’s birthday!! Happy birthday stupid bitch 🥳🥳💕💖💖💞💖💞

The world was crumbling down, Will’s body spiraling with the mass destruction as a single, clean gun shot rang through the room. He stared at the table for one long, horrible second, then dragged his eyes up to Hannibal.

He watched in slow motion as the bullet went through the side of his neck, Hannibal’s body stilling, then jerking back in a state of late reaction. Blood erupted from his throat like a volcano, spurting onto the table and raining cruel, unforgiving red onto their meal. Will watched, dazed, as Hannibal’s hair lifted up off his forehead, his body falling back with the thin, small chair he was sitting in.

The world trudges on slowly in this one, perfect moment.

Will can see the sweat on Jack’s skin, the spit flying as he released the bullet. He can see Bedelia, her body forgotten under the table, her leg steaming beautifully in front of Hannibal.

Everything is echoing dully. In the distance, there is a piano, a warm light Will can see if he turns his head. He sees Hannibal—dressed in one of his fine suits, smiling fondly as he plays. There are memories tied to this piano, this place, a place where Will can only see him in recollection, only now. This will be a hard room to come back to later, Will knows, but this one, small moment will make it worth it nonetheless.

Hannibal looks back at him, hands blurring where they move. “You can make it all go away,” he purrs, the piano turning to a harpsichord. “Put your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.”

Will stares at him for a long moment, just taking in the last sight he’ll ever see of Hannibal as he knows him. He doesn’t look away until he’s full of the sight of Hannibal’s silvery gold hair, his brown deep set eyes and thin lips. Hannibal turns his head back to the piano, brows raising slightly, suggesting him to do something about this. All of this.

Will turns his head back from the slow mo of the world to look at the ceiling, as Hannibal’s throat is ripped, as Jack shouts something harsh and stern to Will, as Bedelia’s dead eyes watch him with the anticipation of the dead, yearning, yearning, but never having quite lived long enough to see the final conclusion. Will stands perfectly still for a moment, just taking it in, taking it all in. Then he takes a deep breath, smells the fresh and old blood on the floor, and the decay of Bedelia, soon to be Hannibal.

His eyes open, time snapping back to attention. Hannibal’s body crashes onto the floor, a loud wheeze escaping him, and Will dives over the table, grabbing a large knife as he goes. This was the butcher knife they used to cut Bedelia’s leg off, and the same they used to slice pieces to eat and feed to her. When she had had her fill, Hannibal had rubbed her shoulders, held her hair aside in a pristine picture of grace as Will slashed her throat open. They threw her to the ground, watching in curiosity as she writhed and gasped, her one leg kicking out desperately while she clawed at the floor.

Then, they left her there to continue eating. Then, there was a sharp knock on the door, and now there’s a sharp pain in Will’s knee, and a sudden, loud cry of a wounded animal. Will crashes to the floor _hard_ , falling against the sharp edge of his broken chair. It was thrown upon Jack’s arrival, cracking into pieces on impact. And now one of the broken chair legs is digging into Will’s spine, threatening to break skin and bone alike.

Jack moves above him, a heavy, dark shadow, with his gun glinting in the yellowy warm lamp light. Will gasps hard and swings the broken chair leg at him, hitting him square in the shin and forcing him onto his knees. He scrambles for a moment, hands slippery with his blood, and grabs the knife again. He swings down right as Jack shoots him in the arm. That doesn’t mean it deters him, though.

Will stabs Jack right in the heart, shoving down as hard as he can and twisting. Jack splutters blood, hacking it up all over his face, and writhes under him, trying to shove Will off.

Will yanks the knife down, cutting through clothes and fat and layers of skin and muscle. He jerks the knife out, raises his hands high and stabs it back into Jack’s collar bone, then repeats the process. He doesn’t stop until the light leaves Jack’s eyes, his hands falling limply to his sides as his face freezes in shocked rage. Will gives him a few flesh wounds on his chest before he throws the knife aside and twists Jack’s neck, making damn sure he is dead.

At this, everything is quiet, save for Will’s labored breathing. Then, a slow, soft clap resounds behind him, echoing like a steady, deadly metronome. Will turned around slowly, and is met with the haunting sight of Hannibal Lecter’s ghost. He is covered in red, shoulder soaked in even darker red. Blood is oozing out of his neck, splatters of it leaving teasing drips on the side of his face. It looked so similar to that night in the kitchen, to when Will had first betrayed him, that Will lets out a loud, hysterical laugh.

“You’ve done it, doctor,” he wheezes, trying and failing to stand up. Hannibal approaches him gently, like he would a scared animal. He cups Will’s cheek, rubs under his eye when Will shuts down and leans into the touch, losing himself in the warm comfort he finds from the soft hands of his dead friend. “This is it.... This is my..... Becoming.”

Hannibal eyed him for a moment, his expression full of so much wonder and awe it almost smothered Will. Then his mouth lifted into a lopsided grin, his posture relaxing. “You are _stunning_ , Will. Absolutely captivating.”

Will let out a startled little laugh, his chest light, head even lighter. He stumbled up onto his feet, then inevitably slipped back down and fell onto the floor again. Hannibal supported him up, cradled the back of his head with one hand just in case. Will opened his eyes and laughed at Hannibal’s strange expression, then laughed in earnest when he realized what he must look like, surrounded by three dead bodies and hallucinating that there were only two. Will laughed and laughed and laughed, watching Hannibal’s concerned face, which made him slowly melt into hard, wracking sobs, his bloody hands covering his eyes and pressing down until it aches.

“Will,” Hannibal calls softly, stumbling down onto his knees next to him.

Will pressed his hands down harder. “I failed again,” he whispered, voice raw and trembling with vulnerability.

There is a small beat of silence, where Will thinks he is truly alone, before Hannibal’s ghost speaks again. “You have never failed me, Will. Only exceeded beyond my greatest expectations.”

Will shook his head. “This is how it was supposed to happen. In Baltimore.” He removed his hands, eyes haunted and stinging. His vision was blurry, but he could imagine the look of strange fascination Hannibal would have on his face right now. “This is... this is my design,” he whispers, hands shaking.

Hannibal reached out and caressed his cheek, the action slow but tender. “It’s beautiful, Will,” he whispered, bringing their foreheads together. “If this were the only thing I could paint every day for the rest of my life, I would be sated.”

Will deflated, falling back fully onto the wooden floor boards. Hannibal propped him back up gently, but. But this is it. Will knows this is it. He knows if he can get up out of here, it’ll just be to a prolonged, painful death. So, he sighs, and settles against the hard, cold floor.

“It was a good run with you, Hannibal,” Will wheezed, voice choked up from the blood (and emotions) that he’d been trying to hold down for so, so long. “I just... I wish it didn’t have to end this way, you know?”

Hannibal pressed their faces even closer together, lips hovering, noses brushing together. “It’s not over yet, darling Will.”

Will panted heavily, suddenly acutely aware of the bleeding wounds on his knee and arm. “I know,” he grumbled, struggling to move his head to the side so he can bury it in Hannibal’s bloody shoulder, taste him for the first and last time. “I know that.”

Hannibal pulled him up roughly, ignoring his groan of pain and forcing them both into standing. He dragged Will onto his feet, then forced him to try to stand on his own despite his fucked up knee. Will instantly crumpled, clinging to Hannibal desperately as he went back down.

“Stay with me, Will,” Hannibal said sternly. “Chiyoh will be here soon. You can make it.”

Will laughed wetly, shaking his head. “Saying it like that—I almost believed you weren’t dead.”

Hannibal frowned and eyed him for a moment. “Is your head making an enemy of you again?” He asked.

Will shook his head, screwing his eyes shut desperately. “I don’t. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.” He pushed away from Hannibal—reckless, he knows—and crashed back against the table, just barely supporting himself up on it. He’s like a Renaissance painting, half-laying on the table at an awkward but fluid angle, continuously crying. “I saw—Jack, he—y-you’re—“

“ _Stay with me, Will_.”

“You’re—“ Will looked over to the chair; saw it empty, save for a large pile of blood, and a dead deer in its seat. “O-oh fuck.... _oh fuck_...!“ Will’s breathing picks up drastically, trying to comprehend what the fuck it is he is _looking_ at.

Where’s Hannibal? Where’s his beautiful hair, thin pouty lips, crooked teeth? Where is he? Did he descend the second he was taken from this mortal realm? Did Jack Crawford _truly_ take him away, forced him back into the BSHCI, never to see the light of day again?

A smooth, soft hand grabs his face forcefully, drags it away from the deer, but Will can’t stop looking at it. It’s big black eyes are glazed over, long pink tongue sticking out of its mouth. It’s long eyelashes hold in the lamp light, reflecting beautifully against the yellow glow. Will’s seen it dead before, on Hannibal’s kitchen floor covered in blood, but not like this. _Not like this._

Static noise starts filling the air, noises echoing around him. Will knows someone is trying to talk to him, but he can’t bear to listen anymore. There are vague shapes passing in front of him—one on the side of him, with his arm slung around its shoulder, and the other leading him out of here, forcing him down steps and half-carrying him when he can’t walk anymore. Everything is a blur as these shadows move, taking him from small stairwells to open aired cobble stone streets, his head pounding and breathing ragged. He takes one good look up at the moon, and can’t help but whimper.

“I wonder if our stars are the same,” he whispers to himself, feeling something soft and wet press against his forehead.

The rest of the night is hazy. Even while Will knew in the moment things were happening, Will’s brain still couldn’t stick with it, could only remember vague flashes of head lights, a scalpel, large wet hands holding his face. What he does remember of that night is fishing. In his dissociative state, Will was having a grand time with Abigail. He caught impossible things for a river, handing her a guppy, an octopus, pufferfish, neon tetras, whatever Abigail could think of in the moment.

Will was chatting lightly with her, enjoying the company of his daughter when there was a noise behind him. Will turned around slowly, and there he was—wonderful, _beautiful_ Hannibal, in his nice white button up shirt, with an ugly orange fishing jacket on him. He had on jeans, which started a laugh from Will.

Hannibal walked to him with a soft, barely there smile on his face. He looked around, appreciating the view. “Ah. So this is the ever elusive stream,” he commented, which earned him a warm chuckle. “How often do you come here to fish?”

“Well... Most times when I’m in a situation I don’t like.” Will paused. “Or when I’m alone.”

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully, then touched his shoulder, holding it securely. It felt weighted, safe. Like home. (Will never wanted to be let go of ever again.)

“I would never leave you alone,” Hannibal murmurs, his words a soft promise. It made Will feel like mush to the onslaught of emotions.

“But that’s why you’re here, aren’t you?” Well chuckled, his voice trembling again. He took a deep breath and wiped the tears forming in his eyes. “I... I killed Jack Crawford,” he says, breath unsteady. “Not for you, but. But you were the driving force behind it.”

Hannibal’s eyes dilate hungrily. “I am glad to hear that, Will,” he murmured, voice low and husky.

Will sighed and turned around quickly, throwing his fishing rod aside. He cupped the back of Hannibal’s neck, bringing him down for a crushing hug. Just as his arms are wrapping around Hannibal’s shoulders, Hannibal returns the hug just as fiercely, a hand holding his waist while the other moves to his hair. Will takes in a gasp like he’s been drowning, feels the breath between them shiver with something like a promise. Hannibal buried his face in Will’s neck, very obviously smelling him, as he is wont to do.

“Are you sniffing me?” Will joked, struggling not to return the favor. However, at the next deep inhale, the next tickle on his neck, Will couldn’t resist anymore. Hannibal was already dead, so what did it matter? He buried his nose in the fine hairs by Hannibal ear, indulging himself in the smell of _Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal._

“I have missed you, my Will,” Hannibal groaned, pressing his lips against Will’s skin. It wasn’t a kiss, just a mere press of skin. It was a byproduct of Hannibal pressing his face in closer, getting his nose right where Will’s distinctive scent was the strongest, but it still made Will’s knees weak. “I don’t think I can bear another day without you.”

Will laughed, eyes teary again. “That makes two of us.”

They stood there, breathing each other in, trying to press their bodies as close together as they could. Hannibal inhaled his scent a few more times, then started to gently pulled away. “I need you, Will. I need you more now than I have ever—“

“No,” Will cut in quickly. “No, you don’t need anything but a burial. Jack Crawford made sure of that.”

Hannibal gave him that complicated look again, this time with a shade of grief. “Your mind can be so cruel at times.”

“Keeps me on my toes,” Will agreed.

Hannibal cupped his face gently, rubbing his thumbs across Will’s cheeks, back and forth, back and forth. Will closed his eyes and let out a long breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He stood still, letting Hannibal touch him softly and murmur to him. When he opened his eyes again, he was in a dark room, comfortable and warm. He turned his head to the side, and saw Hannibal sitting on a chair, his arm out to hold his hand. It looked so painfully similar to how he was in the hospital with Abigail, Will couldn’t help but pray that he was to die soon.

Hannibal was breathing softly, in a plain sweater and slacks, with some kind of expensive shoes on. It was an outfit similar to one Will had seen before, but he couldn’t remember from where. Hannibal looked so peaceful, so warm yet expectant, even in his sleep. It made Will smile, his heart monitor spiking for a moment before it went back to normal.

Will looked around the room, taking in the mundane sight. It was just a bedroom with a few medical supplies, most of which were IVs, tools, heart monitor, a collection of medicine and bottles on a metal table. Will turned his head slowly, looking back to Hannibal. He seemed tired, his eyes heavy and hair shiny with oil, the way unwashed hair usually is. Will smiled at that, and took in the rare sight of Hannibal resting.

After a long time of staring, Will felt a strong urge to sleep wash over him. He fought it viciously, squeezing Hannibal’s hand firmly.

“Hannibal,” he called, his voice raspy and ugly from misuse. When the man didn’t stir, Will squeezed his hand tighter. “Hannibal.”

After a few more tries, Will was ready to just give up when there was a soft squeeze of the hand back. Hannibal came to slowly, his eyes roving the foot of the bed for a moment, before they dragged up to Will. When they locked eyes, Will subconsciously squeezed Hannibal’s hand again, a soft gasp escaping his mouth.

“Hannibal?” Will inquired in a tiny voice.

Hannibal leaned forward and brushed the hair away from his forehead. “My dear Will,” he whispered fondly. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

Will felt it, in this moment. He felt the waver in Hannibal’s voice, the soft hesitance in his hands. This was _real_ , it had to be. Nothing could replicate this exact look in Hannibal’s eye, the way his hair was flat and stuck to his skull, not floating like he was still falling.

Will hiccuped, the touch immediately turning both overwhelming and not enough. “ _Hannibal_ ,“ he sobbed, weakly reaching out with his other hand. It could only go so far before it collapsed, laying limply on his stomach.

Hannibal reached forward and caressed his hand, rubbing between his knuckles with his thumb. “I thought you’d be gone forever,” Hannibal muttered, moving a hand to pet Will’s hair. It made him cry harder. “You were wading too far out in your stream, Will. I wasn’t sure if you could come back to me.”

Will must have been drunk, because suddenly he blurted out, “I’ll always come back to you.”

They stared at each other for a long short moment. Then Hannibal was moving, and Will was sitting up, mouth searching desperately. Kissing Hannibal felt like kissing a strong electric current. It was full of lush despair, heartfelt agony, Will’s brain splitting apart and restitching together anew. They were physically conjoining, pleasing a strong part of Will he never knew existed.

Hannibal tried to pull away, but Will chased after him with a soft cry, his tears turning the kiss salty. He couldn’t do much but press his lips against Hannibal’s, trying hard to stay conscious while his strength leaked from his limbs, rendering him a useless, blubbering mess. Hannibal held Will gently, as if he were the twice broken tea cup, about to shatter all over again, this time into fine dust.

After a few gentle nibbles, Will moved his lips sloppily to Hannibal’s jaw, panting hard. “I— _Hannibal_ —“

Hannibal gave him a brief kiss, and Will sighed gently into his mouth. Then, suddenly, there something was stabbing Will’s arm. Will cried out in pain, jerking away from Hannibal’s tantalizing lips and looking down to see a syringe. It was full with a clear liquid, slowly emptying out into his arm. He stared up, confused, and saw unfiltered _adoration_ in Hannibal’s eyes. Somehow, that made things worse.

“You need to rest,” Hannibal whispered. He sounded distant, as though he were miles away instead of practically brushing eyelashes with Will.

Will couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, his eyes plastering shut from the drugs. “I don’... wanna lose you...”

Hannibal ran a hand through his hair again, his voice soothing. “I will always be here with you, my dear Will.”

Will went in and out of sleep for a couple of days after that, constantly unsure of where he was. At some points he was rocking on a boat, laying on an uncomfortable bench, and in most, he was in the backseat of a car, suffering from vertigo. But in each, there was Hannibal—holding him gently, smoothing out his brows, touching his cheek reverently. When Will had finally awakened in a bed, and was allowed to stay awake, he had looked at Hannibal for hours. Then he asked quite blandly for some water.

“Not going back to the stream on me, are you Will?” Hannibal joked, getting him a glass.

Will chuckled and shook his head, opening his mouth to suck on the small plastic straw. Hannibal refused to let him hold his own cup, instead forcing Will to fully rely on him. It gave him great pleasure, anyone could tell, and Will was too drugged up to give a shit. But after some time the drugs wore off, and Will started lightly bitching at Hannibal for treating him like a little kid. Hannibal had smiled, and slowly gave him back his independence, piece by piece.

When Will was finally able to put pressure on his knee, he was immediately thrown into walking. He had to do so with Hannibal wrapped around his side, their hips bumping into each other every so often. It was a struggle to walk when your ex-boss shot you in the fucking knee, and you were in a drug induced coma for half the time, but it was nothing a little physical therapy couldn’t help. Hannibal encouraged Will to stretch his leg and arm out, giving him soft kisses as a reward for when he (safely) pushed himself past his daily limit.

Will couldn’t get enough of Hannibal’s small kisses, seeking out these new, little moments of affection between them. He was confident Hannibal craved these moments as much as he did, especially when Hannibal kissed him so fluidly, kept eye contact even while they sucked on each other’s tongue. It made something vulnerable quiver in Will’s chest, and he could feel it in Hannibal’s, too.

One night, while they were just lounging on Hannibal’s couch—which was in Cuba, by the way, what the fuck—they were feeling each other arms and torsos, reaching out emotionally, when Will had looked down at the soft pudge of Hannibal’s stomach and confessed his feelings. He told Hannibal how totally he wanted to rip Hannibal’s chest open and nestle in there, bury himself in Hannibal’s beautiful flowers just as he did to that one politician.

There was a brief moment of silence, where Will thought he might have said the wrong thing, and Hannibal might not return the affection, but then he looked up and saw the tears glistening in Hannibal’s eyes, and he knew. He knew.

“You’re alive,” Will gasped, reaching out to cup his lover’s warm, soft cheek.

Hannibal leaned into his touch, just as Will had when he was saved from his own spiraling decadence, with Bedelia and Jack on the floor. (There was never a third body. Will was so, so grateful.)

“I’ve never been more alive, Will,” Hannibal responded softly, nuzzling into his hand further. His eyes were shining, radiating, giving off so much love Will had to look at his chin.

“Is it because of Cuba?” Will snorted, moving his hand up to push Hannibal’s hair back. It had grown out a little, resting past his eyes and reaching to his nose. It was often kept back with gel, but at night, when there were wandering hands, it would be back down to his eyes.

Hannibal turned his head to the side and kissed Will’s wrist, his cheeks pink. “It’s more than Cuba. It’s the world.”

Hannibal opened his eyes then, made intense, earnest eye contact with Will, and Will felt something small but heavy fall into place. They reached for each other immediately, pushing and pulling, ripping clothes and stumbling down the hallway like drunken teens. They paused when Will groaned in pain from his knee, but continued on fervently when Hannibal just casually picked him up and carried him to bed. They made love in Will’s room, bodies writhing and gasping, their love too strong to keep in—or, not without blood, at least. And when they were done, and Will saw the blood under his nails, the sated smile on Hannibal’s face, he _knew_ —

This was more than living. This was their Becoming.

“Death can’t touch us now,” Will murmured like a prayer.

Hannibal’s smile widened. He pressed his soft, thin lips to Will’s. “It never could.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while procrastinating on a research paper and you can tell LMAO


End file.
